


under my skin (give in)

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Extra Treat, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: "Great, you're here," Flag said, brisk, and slapped the biggest fucking hypodermic needle GQ'd ever seen into GQ's hand. "This is the stuff. Antivenom. The geeks formulated it special out of whatever they found on that thing's teeth. Triple dose. He's got to get the whole thing. No cutting corners on this.""Understood, sir," GQ said, automatic, staring down at it. "But I, uh. Why—why me? Shouldn't some kind of, you know, actual medical professional be doing this?"
Relationships: GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones
Comments: 27
Kudos: 155
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	under my skin (give in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hecate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/gifts).



> This is slightly to the left of your prompt for Croc getting sick and GQ being the only one who can help him ... but I hope you still like it, and happy Shipoween! ♥
> 
> Title shamelessly borrowed from the Frank Sinatra song.

"Great, you're here," Flag said, brisk, and slapped the biggest fucking hypodermic needle GQ'd ever seen into GQ's hand. "This is the stuff. Antivenom. The geeks formulated it special out of whatever they found on that thing's teeth. Triple dose. He's got to get the whole thing. No cutting corners on this."

"Understood, sir," GQ said, automatic, staring down at it. "But I, uh. Why—why me? Shouldn't some kind of, you know, actual medical professional be doing this?"

Flag raised an eyebrow. "They tried that. Won't let any of them near him. I suggested they might have better luck if they sent in somebody he liked. That asshole Marlwood wouldn't go for it. Third guy they tried got his arm bitten off. After that, somebody decided maybe I had a point."

He gave GQ a steady, knowing look, and GQ felt his face get hot.

Flag knew about—that there was a thing. That GQ had a thing, anyway. They'd talked about it, the only way they ever talked about things: Flag had caught him looking, had stared at him and then said, "Huh." Five hours later, after debriefing, Flag had stopped him for a second in the corridor and said, "Really?"

Nothing GQ had been able to do with that except turn red it felt like all the way up to the ends of his hair, and clear his throat, and say, "Don't know what you mean, boss." And after that, Flag had known for sure.

It wasn't a big deal. GQ made sure it wasn't a big deal. Nobody else knew. And besides, it didn't mean squat right now anyway.

"What, just because I," GQ said, and then coughed a little. "That doesn't mean he—"

"Shut the fuck up," Flag said, not unkindly. "I wasn't talking about that. You know him, he knows you. You guys partner up on dives all the time. He knows what you look like, he knows what you smell like. He trusts you. You really trying to tell me you think he's better off with one of those lab coats than he is with you?"

And when he put it like that—well. GQ closed his hand around the needle.

Because there was a limit to the amount of effort ARGUS was going to go to, to keep Croc alive. He was worth more to Waller than a couple geeks getting smacked around, a bitten-off arm. But maybe not a lot more. And if nobody could figure out how to get this shit into him, then they'd switch gears, cut their losses. Maybe try out a couple procedures they hadn't had a chance to test yet, if he was dying anyway.

Like hell was GQ going to let that happen.

"Got it, boss," he said, and gave Flag the nod; and Flag nodded back, and then had the geeks open up the door.

They'd put Croc in one of the isolation rooms.

Probably before he'd woken up. Hard to imagine how they'd have gotten him in here otherwise.

The isolation rooms were clean, white. Cold. Concrete blocks with steel beams through them, steel doors, the whole nine yards. When ARGUS wanted to isolate something, they went all-out.

GQ stepped in, and didn't move until the door had closed behind him. He figured they were both better off if Croc could hear his footsteps clearly—could tell how close or far away he was, and that nobody else had come in with him.

And he needed a second anyway, because jesus, Croc looked like shit.

GQ had seen it happen. Or at least he'd seen the big freaky shark-thing with like six rows of teeth coming at them, and then he'd seen Croc move, and then he'd seen a sudden billowing cloud of dark blood in the water.

He'd gotten glimpses of the wounds, the bite marks. They'd been hard to miss, gaping across Croc's chest and shoulder, his gut, his fucking _head_. But he'd been kind of busy staying alive, and then dragging Croc out of there. He hadn't learned until after they'd made it to the extraction point, the shark-thing belly-up in pieces behind them, that it had been venomous. And by then Croc had already been strapped down, secured so he could be hauled off to Medical.

That had been hours ago. GQ hadn't been allowed in, and nobody had told him shit. Not until Flag had sent somebody to come and find him, grabbed him by the arm and walked him in, and put the needle in his hand.

And Croc was—he was curled up in a corner, knees drawn in, hulking shoulders pushed up around his head like he thought maybe nobody would be able to see him behind them. His hands were in fists, clenched tight and shaking a little, like maybe he couldn't have unclenched them even if he wanted to.

He'd heard GQ. He cracked an eye, tensed up all over and growled; but it sounded hoarse, kind of strained, not the deep thundering rumble GQ was used to hearing when Croc was pissed.

"Hey, man," GQ said, and he kept his voice quiet and even. "Not feeling too good, huh?"

The growl went unsteady and then died away. Croc shifted a little, lifted his head for real and actually looked at GQ, except he sort of wasn't: his eyes were bloodshot, glassy, and he wasn't tracking, gaze off to one side of GQ's actual face, a beat behind.

Somebody had tried to bandage him up. It hadn't worked; clawed-up strips of bloody gauze were strewn all over the floor around him. He was still bleeding, dark and sluggish, and the edges of the wounds GQ could see stood out, red and seeping, ragged, and it shouldn't have been possible, but—jesus, Croc had been bitten by a giant fucking mutant shark-thing, what was and wasn't possible? It was like blood poisoning, except actual poison: dark branching lines fanning away from the sides of the bites, clawing their way under Croc's scales, eating him alive.

"Damn," GQ breathed, and Croc huffed a little and eyeballed GQ like he wasn't sure why GQ was making such a fuss.

GQ took a step closer, slow, careful. Croc watched him do it, bared his teeth but didn't snap or snarl.

"You know me?"

Croc didn't answer. He blinked, once, twice, one set of eyelids slower than the other, and his jaw worked. He looked kind of scary, his own blood all over him, but more than that, he looked—he looked hunted, disoriented. It was no fucking wonder he'd chewed somebody's arm off, if they'd come at him while he was hurt and cornered, while he had no idea what the hell was happening.

"That's fine, that's fine," GQ said aloud. "You're the strong silent type, I knew that already."

He kept talking, nonsense, nothing that mattered, and kept crossing the distance, half-step by half-step. When he'd crossed half the room, Croc's head moved again, and he breathed in deep through his nose and then went still.

"Yeah, that's right," GQ said. "It's me."

Croc made a vague noise and wet his lips, and then blinked again—a lot slower this time. That was either good, GQ thought, because some part of him understood GQ wasn't going to try to rush him while his eyes were closed; or it was really fucking bad, if he was starting to go under.

GQ cleared his throat. "Okay, so, just FYI, I got a giant fucking needle here."

Croc tensed up, toes curling, claws digging into the concrete floor.

"I'm not going to stick you with it," GQ added, quick. "Not until you're cool with it. Wanted you to know I had it, that's all. So it wouldn't be a surprise." He held up the needle, twiddled it a little; the antivenom was pale, faintly blue. And then he crouched down, and set it on the floor, and left it there. "You've got to let me give it to you. But not yet. All right?"

He had no idea whether it was true. For all he knew, two minutes—ten seconds—was absolutely critical. But if he tried something stupid and Croc panicked because of it, he wasn't going to be able to get the stuff injected anyhow. So there was no point in rushing it.

He inched a little closer. Croc let him. He swallowed, and reached out, set two fingertips real gently against the back of Croc's hand where Croc's fists were braced against the floor; and Croc made a strangled noise, showed teeth again, but didn't jerk away.

"Hey," GQ said softly. "Pretty shitty day you've had, am I right?"

Croc gave him a flat stare, and GQ snorted.

"Yeah, okay, dumb question." GQ bit his lip, flattened his whole hand over the back of Croc's, and when Croc still didn't get pissed, he shifted closer still, reached up with the other hand and set it on Croc's shoulder.

And all at once, just like that, Croc did move, but not to shove GQ off. He shuddered, eyes closing, and leaned into GQ's hands—curled forward, swaying suddenly close, and GQ just about managed to catch him, bear the weight of him.

"GQ," Croc said into GQ's shoulder, low, and then turned his face into the side of GQ's throat and pressed even closer; and jesus, he was—

"Cold, huh?" GQ murmured, and Croc shivered a little, pushed an arm in under GQ's and shoved his fist shamelessly up the back of GQ's uniform shirt. He _was_ cold—usually the surface of his skin felt lukewarm, took a moment to heat up, like touching anybody else's arm through a raincoat. But now it was like somebody'd left him in a refrigerator overnight. "Okay, all right," GQ said, and drew him in closer; he was bleeding all over GQ, jesus, but at least he was responsive. At least there was something GQ could do for him, even if it was just—be warm.

"Do it," Croc said, muffled, into the collar of GQ's shirt.

"You sure?"

"Got to," Croc said.

"You're not wrong," GQ allowed.

The needle was still where he'd left it, on the floor behind him, tipping a little. He reached back and picked it up, and Croc twisted around to watch it, wary, eyes narrowed, but he held still. He held still, and let GQ find one of the soft seams of skin between his scutes, right at the crook of his elbow.

"Okay, here goes," GQ said, and stuck it in.

Croc flinched, growling, but he didn't pull his arm away. GQ squeezed the plunger down, and when he was done, he yanked the needle out again and tossed it over his shoulder without even looking, because it wasn't like it mattered where it landed.

Nothing changed, for a minute or two. Then Croc's breathing changed—came shorter, faster, and GQ frowned and closed a hand on the nape of his neck, where his head was still bent down against GQ's shoulder, and said, "Hey—"

Croc hissed, and his whole body tightened; he still hadn't been able to flatten his hands out, but now it was like all the rest of him was cramping up, too, spasms jerking their way through him. There were—there were flickers of _light_ under his scales, pale blue, and jesus, Flag hadn't been kidding: _the geeks formulated it special out of whatever they got off that thing's teeth_ , and GQ maybe should've guessed a little sooner that anything that could rip chunks out of Croc and poison him half to death was magic somehow or other.

"Croc," GQ said. "Croc, man, let me call somebody in here—"

"No," Croc grated out against the side of GQ's throat.

"Seriously, I don't—if this fucks you up, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about it. You need someone who actually knows how to help you not die of this."

"Got you," Croc objected, and hung onto GQ tighter, and even if GQ had been physically capable of peeling him off when he was this determined, it would have been pretty fucking hard to actually do it.

So GQ didn't try. He swore, soft and furious, into Croc's ear, and he held on while Croc shook and groaned low in his throat. And after what felt like at least an hour but probably wasn't more than ten minutes, the worst of it started to ease. Croc let out a slow shuddering breath, and that wire-strung tension in his body started to unravel an inch at a time; he even stretched out one stiff hand, flexed it under GQ's shirt and then spread it across the small of GQ's back and made a shaky satisfied noise at the warmth.

And then GQ had to stop thinking about that hand immediately, because there was probably a worse time than this to pop a boner but he couldn't think off the top of his head what it was.

"Better?" he said instead, and moved just enough to meet Croc's eyes—eye, since Croc was apparently only willing to crack one of them open, but already his gaze seemed clearer, sharper.

Croc was quiet for a handful of seconds, like he was actually thinking about the answer instead of like he couldn't make his brain tell him what the words meant. "Yeah," he assessed at last, and GQ swallowed a whoop of relief and then made Croc back off a little further, far enough for GQ to actually look him over.

He was still gashed open, bleeding steadily. But he was about three-quarters of the way back to looking like it was no big deal. The wounds were fresh, angry—but that seeping darkness spreading out from the edges of them was gone. Croc's scales were back to normal: bone-white fading to gray and then deep green.

"Jesus," GQ sighed. "You scared the shit out of me, dude."

He looked up. Croc was watching him steadily. "Yeah," Croc acknowledged, because of course it wouldn't occur to him to say sorry. And then he leaned in close, bumped his big broad forehead against GQ's, and added, "Thanks."

GQ reached out and caught him by the side of the face, and kept him there. "I mean it," he said, low, because he had the feeling he hadn't really managed to make his point. "I saw that thing come at you, that sucker was serious business. I don't—" He stopped, swallowing, throat tight. "I don't know what I would've done, if you'd died. Nothing good, though."

Croc hummed a little, like maybe he was only sort of listening; like he didn't get how much GQ meant it. And for some reason, that was what did it. That was what tipped GQ over the edge.

He sucked in a breath, mouth suddenly dry, because jesus, he was—he could tell already, he was fucking doing this. "I mean it," he said again, and then he watched his own stupid hand move, his thumb sweeping across Croc's bumpy cheek, and then he leaned in and kissed Croc on the mouth.

He'd been doing such a good job, too, he thought distantly. Keeping this bullshit under wraps, not letting it get the better of him. And now here he was, locked in an isolation room with probably at least ten cameras pointed at him, macking on the giant crocodile-man who'd been dying of shark poison two minutes ago and was still cut open in way too many places for comfort.

He'd have fucked up sooner or later. He knew that. He just hadn't planned on doing it like this.

And then Croc moved, reached up and caught GQ under the chin with one hand, thumb on one side and fingers on the other—tipping GQ's face up, holding it there so he could—so his tongue could—and okay. All right. Maybe GQ hadn't fucked anything up at all.

GQ twisted away out of sheer surprise; Croc let him do it, but didn't let go of him. GQ blinked and wet his lips, not that they needed it, and that—that was not the facial expression of a crocodile man who was just patiently putting up with a weird human doing a weird human thing to him.

"Really?" he croaked.

Croc's eyes went heavy, dark. He dug his thumb a little harder into the line of GQ's jaw, rubbed it sideways, and suddenly it was like the only sound in the room was the rasp of GQ's stubble against his scutes, the hitch in GQ's breathing.

"Yeah," Croc said, very low.

"You, uh," GQ said, staring. "You should—they better check you out, man. Make sure it worked."

"They can wait," Croc decided, and grinned at him, flash of those sharp white teeth, and then held him there and kissed him again.


End file.
